


Under the Mistletoe

by testosterone_tea



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, First Kiss, First Time, Holiday Gift Exchange, Inexperienced Sherlock, M/M, Mistletoe, Oral Sex, exchangelock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-28
Updated: 2014-12-28
Packaged: 2018-03-04 01:48:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2904842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/testosterone_tea/pseuds/testosterone_tea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mistletoe is a parasite, and Sherlock really wishes everyone would stop romanticizing it. What could possibly happen to change his mind?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Under the Mistletoe

**Author's Note:**

> Just a bit of Christmas fluff for the Holiday Gift Exchange on Tumblr.
> 
> This gift is for [astudyinstrawberrybrownies](http://astudyinstrawberrybrownies.tumblr.com)

Mistletoe was a parasite. Sherlock was pretty certain that most people knew that, and how the dreadful Christmas tradition came about was a mystery too easily solved. It was usually beyond his notice unless he happened to see someone kissing beneath a fake sprig.

But not so now.

This year, his mother said that she wanted a real sprig of mistletoe to hang in the doorway.

"It's easily found, why don't you ask someone else to do it?" Sherlock snapped over the phone, pacing back and forth across the living room.

"Oh, Sherlock, if it's not that hard to find, then it should be no trouble," his mother replied, refusing to see reason.

"I want nothing to do with the dratted tradition," Sherlock said, fuming. "I have better things to do than trek across the country to find some kissing plant."

At this, John, who was reading the paper, looked up in interest.

"It grows in the trees behind our house, it should be easy to do."

"Yes, well, if it grows behind the house, then why don't you get it? Anyway, it would require me to come home. And you know how that went _last year_."

"Oh, I do wish you would bring your friends around again," his mother said. "Our house has never had so many people in it. It was cheerful!"

"Yes, I'm sure being drugged was a festive experience as well! And I nearly got sent to Serbia again," Sherlock replied scathingly. "And a happy new year was had by all."

"It was a rather good year, wasn't it," his mother replied. "You got to come home again, and you moved back in with your friend..."

"Because his wife was an assassin who cheated on him and was deported to America," Sherlock hissed, lowering his voice in case John was still listening.

"But you're happy now, aren't you Sherlock?"

"After a fashion," Sherlock grumbled and then sighed.

It could be worse, he knew that. He could be dead six months, without John ever knowing what happened to him. John could also still be married to a woman that had shot his best friend and worked for an evil mastermind.

Best friend. That was him.

Sherlock still treasured that conversation, because it had never occurred to him before then that John Watson held him in such high esteem. Even though it was said as a precursor to John asking him to be best man at his wedding. 

Sherlock had come to terms with the fact that one day, he would lose John again, and this time to someone who wasn't an assassin. He would never choose Sherlock over a normal life, one that didn't require death-defying stunts and a life forever on the run after a criminal. He wanted a wife, children, and a stable job. And he wasn't romantically or sexually attracted to men, anyway, so the fact Sherlock was available was a moot point.

Sherlock had come to terms with that as well, his attraction and attachment to John Watson. He was still a bit shocked over this fact, and the process of realization had been embarrassingly long and confusing.

"Sherlock?" his mother said over the phone. "Are you still there?"

He'd lost track of the conversation reminiscing about John. How silly of him.

"Get Mycroft to do it," Sherlock said, remembering the starter for the discussion.

"It requires someone who's a good shot with a rifle," his mother said. "Your friend was in the army, wasn't he? I bet he could do it quite easily."

Sherlock could see where this was going now.

"I'm not bringing John to shoot some blasted mistletoe out of a tree for you," he said. "Mycroft has plenty of agents who would be only too happy to do as ordered and retrieve you some."

"Who wants me to shoot mistletoe out of a tree?"

Wonderful. John had entered the conversation, and it was far too easy now. John was far to accommodating the majority of the time, and he liked Sherlock's mother. He tried anyway, just to avoid the awkwardness that would undoubtedly ensue if they actually went.

"My mother is going to get Mycroft to do it," Sherlock said, bristling.

"Oh, no bother. I'd be happy to do it," John said, with an easy smile. "It's been a long time since I've shot a long arm. I'm probably a bit rusty."

"I heard that!" his mother exclaimed. "See, Sherlock? It's just you who's against it. You know, Christmas is soon, it would be nice to see you both again."

John looked pleased, and insisted on taking the phone from Sherlock so that he could make any necessary arrangements for when to go over. Sherlock went and sulked on the couch. His mother was more meddling than even Mycroft! Couldn't they see that John was far better off without Sherlock, and didn't want him that way anyway?

He supposed they were just being selfish on Sherlock's behalf. He wished they wouldn't.

He'd been very selfish the past few years. He acknowledged that now that he'd realized how angry and devastated John had been. It had been an indulgence in sentiment to jump off a building for John, and not to tell him that he was alive. It kept him safe and alive, but John had made it clear that he would rather be in danger if he could remain at Sherlock's side.

He'd even phrased it that way. If only he meant it in the way Sherlock wanted him to.

"We're going this Saturday," John informed him.

"We don't need to go," Sherlock said sulkily, but John just laughed.

"It's not hard, I like your family, and I don't mind doing it. I know you like your parents more than you let on, so don't be a berk."

"I don't want to," Sherlock grumbled, but resigned himself to going.

"Come on, you sod. It's Christmas, and we're going."

Sherlock sighed and didn't respond. 

OOooOO

Sherlock spent the next several days trying to keep John from going.

First he pretended to have a terrible cold, but of course, that didn't last long. Not only did John see through it within a few hours, but Sherlock had gotten fed up with faking a running nose and stopped. John had berated him for putting pepper in his nose and instructed him on how to rinse his sinuses out to prevent infection.

Then he'd pretended to sprain his ankle, which John had realized wasn't real after only five minutes. 

"No more fake injuries, Sherlock," John admonished him.

Sherlock was halfway through writing a list of ways to cause himself minor but not serious injuries when John found him and became angry.

"No _actual_ injuries either!" he shouted.

Sulking, Sherlock tried to bribe Lestrade into giving them a good case that would keep them busy for a few days. Surely even John would see reason if he thought that a case had come up! Nothing like a nice murder to distract John.

"Sorry, Sherlock, John's already called me," Lestrade said ruefully. "He told me not to let you have a case until you get back."

"But –"

"No, Sherlock. I promised!"

It was a last resort.

"Mycroft, can you please just kidnap me and have done with it," Sherlock asked his infuriating brother.

"I don't see why that's necessary," Mycroft said, obviously fishing for something.

"You know why!" Sherlock hissed. "They're obviously trying to set me up with John! And as we both know, John wouldn't appreciate that in the least. I'd rather avoid the entire situation, if possible."

"And what would your exchange for this interaction be, brother dear?"

"Five cases," Sherlock said immediately.

"Five?" he could practically hear Mycroft's eyebrow raise. "I thought for sure you'd start with one. You are rather desperate to avoid this, aren't you."

"I'd rather not be humiliated and have John angry with me over something that could be easily diverted," Sherlock replied. "So will you do it?"

"I don't think so, Sherlock."

"Ten cases," Sherlock said, and he heard Mycroft pause.

"Oh, Sherlock," his brother said. "You really are afraid of this, aren't you."

"I'm not afraid, I just don't want –"

"I think you'd be better off facing this," Mycroft said. "Finally. This should have been resolved years ago, but you're both stubborn. It should be eye-opening, to say the least."

"What, wait, Mycroft –"

But Mycroft, his last hope for avoiding the whole, terrible situation, was gone.

OOooOO

Sherlock hated the countryside. It was dreadfully dull and full of people that all knew each other, where nothing ever changed. Technology had improved the housing and farming, but as far as Sherlock was concerned, he was entirely certain that village life was the same now as it had been centuries ago. Great Britain in the future would probably still be the same, only with space colonies to send their product to.

John loved it, evidently. He looked excited as he watched it go by outside the car window. It hadn't been the same last Christmas, when John had simply looked worn out and sad. Things were better now, and Sherlock was almost glad to come, if only to see John happy again.

"Look, there's lots of mistletoe out there," John said. "Your mum was right."

"All those trees are slowly dying," Sherlock replied with a huff.

"Cheerful sod," John said. "I'm sure your mum just wants to see you and is using the mistletoe as an excuse to get you there."

"Indeed," Sherlock said dryly.

"Do you know when we'll get there?" John asked.

"A lot sooner, if only Mycroft's dreadful car will get us there any faster," Sherlock said. "I hate the countryside."

"Don't be such a sulky brat and cheer up," John admonished him, thought there was no bite behind the words.

Sherlock sulked, and John huffed out a breath of laughter. Sherlock wasn't looking at John, pretending he was intent at looking at the dull English countryside rolling by. That's why he didn't see what happened, all he knew was that John suddenly put his hand down on top of Sherlock's.

It could have been an accident. Sherlock was in the midst of convinving himself of such, but then, John didn't snatch his hand away as expected.

Heart kicking him in the ribs, Sherlock stared desperately out the window and tried to keep his hand still. He hadn't even tried to keep track of the seconds, but surely this extended contact wasn't normal among heterosexual men?

It all flashed through his head. It was probably just an accident. Possibly John hadn't even noticed that he'd put his hand on Sherlock's, and if Sherlock brought his attention to it, he'd be embarrassed. Either that, or he had noticed, and now was too embarrassed to move it. He couldn't have done it on purpose. Heterosexual men didn't touch each other like this purposefully.

And anyway. Wasn't this situation just a tiny bit juvenile? It was like being a teenager all over again.

Except Sherlock had never gone throught that as a teen. He'd skipped right past that bit, and only sensational television programs told him that this moment was as cliche as they came.

Sherlock was so busy panicking, he didn't register that the scenery in front of him was familiar.

"We're here," John announced.

Sherlock started at his voice and turned to him in surprise. He could have been imagining it, but he could have sworn that John gave his hand a slight squeeze before he got out of the car. Sherlock stared at his hand, blinking rapidly, and started again when John yelled behind him, "You coming?"

Sherlock followed him, still flexing his hand, but the feeling of John's hand on his lingered. Sherlock's mum was engulfing John, and John seemed pleased as she released him, then reached out to shake his father's hand. 

"Come on, Sherlock," his mum said, and he came inside.

"Isn't it hateful," came a voice from behind him.

"I thought you weren't coming!" Sherlock hissed as his brother's smug face came into view.

"And miss this?" his brother said, waving one hand. "Not likely."

"Nice jumper, Mycroft," John commented as he came to stand beside Mycroft.

Mycroft looked down at his own chest and scowled. "Mummy insisted. There's one for you too, Sherlock."

"John can wear mine," Sherlock said quickly. "What is that supposed to be, anyway?"

"A reindeer," Mycroft said sourly.

"Come and have some mulled wine," Sherlock's mum said from the living room.

Mycroft quickly stole the seat in the only armchair, so Sherlock settled on the sofa, cradling his wine between his palms. The couch shifted as John sat next to him, gravity causing Sherlock to end up almost squashed up to John's side. Sherlock shifted nervously, trying to figure out if he could put some space in between them without anyone noticing.

"Stay still," John whispered.

Sherlock froze. What was going on? The couch's sag made him lean into John's arm, but no amount of keeping himself as rigid as possible was going to prevent him from falling against John. Why had John sat so close? John relaxed against the back of the couch and stretched out one arm. Sherlock hunched his shoulders and cast a glance nervously over his shoulder. John's arm was right there.

"Relax, Sherlock," John murmured, just loudly enough for him to hear.

His mum was telling some story, and John went back to listening and sipping on his wine. Sherlock took in a deep breath and another. Slowly, trying not to move too fast, Sherlock relaxed into the couch. The more he relaxed, the more he leaned into John's side.

It was warm, and he could feel John's breathing, steady and calming. Sherlock matched his breathing to John's and tried to steady the wild thrum of his pulse. Sherlock realized he was holding a cup of mulled wine and took a sip. The spices were a burst of sensation against his tongue, and he breathed in the scent. It was still hot, and his fingers were nice and warm against the mug's exterior.

His mum finished the story, and John was smiling. It was probably the one from when he was a child, and Redbeard was still only a puppy. He remembered. They'd gotten into the Christmas biscuits, and his mum had scolded him. He hadn't cared. He and Redbeard had gone outside to play.

Fingers against his shoulders made him start into the present. John's arm had shifted down, and his hand was over Sherlock's shoulder, fingers drawing random patterns against his arm. John wasn't paying attention to his hand, focused on the conversation.

Touching him. Why did John keep touching him?

"Too bad Sherlock didn't bring his violin," his mother was saying. "I'd love to hear a nice carol or two."

"He didn't bring his violin, but he did bring me," John said. "And I came to get a certain someone some fresh mistletoe. Better get the job done, yeah?"

"Of course, John! Although you shouldn't feel rushed. We have all night, and there's more mulled wine on the stove."

"Ah, it'll be dark soon. Best do it now."

"Sensible man. Come on, Sherlock, take John out back and show him the mistletoe."

"I'm sure he can see it fine himself," Sherlock said, but got up.

"Here, you'll freeze in just that," his mother said.

She was wielding another terrible jumper, this one with a snowflake on the front. Sherlock tried to protest, but she had it over his head before he could do anything. At least it was dark blue and not Christmas red, like Mycroft's. He felt his hair fluff up with static and scowled.

"Cheer up, darling," she said.

Sherlock's father had gone to get a rifle from the store room with John. John's face lit up when he came out and saw Sherlock in the jumper.

"You look..."

"Ridiculous."

"Adorable."

Sherlock flushed up to the tips of his ears. John just smiled at him before stepping out the back door. There had been a dusting of snow the night before, and the thin layer crunched underneath his feet as he followed John outside. 

He could see his breath on the air, and he stopped to watch as John loaded a round and raised the rifle to his shoulder. The sight of John shouldering a weapon shouldn't have sent another rush of blood to his cheeks, but it did.

"I didn't zero in this rifle, so I hope I can hit the mistletoe," John said in the distracted sort of way of someone who was concentrating on something else.

A shot rang out, and to Sherlock's surprise, a whole round bunch of mistletoe fell right out of the tree to land at John's feet.

"Not what I was aiming for, but I'll take what I can get," John laughed.

He ejected the bullet casing and flicked the safety on before laying it on the ground carefully. 

Sherlock leaned over the bunch of mistletoe and said, "I don't think we'll need this whole thing."

"Probably not," John said. "Here."

John held out his knife, and Sherlock carefully cut out a bunch of mistletoe that looked the most fresh. Now that he was here, he might as well do the thing properly.

"This look alright?" he asked, holding the sprig up.

"Yeah," John said. "Hold it up higher."

Sherlock did, and John smiled a bit and said, "Higher than that, Sherlock, above your head."

Sherlock held it up, looking up at it, wondering what John needed it up like this for.

"Sherlock..."

John had gotten very close when he had been looking at the mistletoe. In fact, he was getting closer. He was... Sherlock realized what was going on a split second before it happened, just in time to close his eyes.

John's gloved hands closed around his jaw and gently pulled him down far enough that John's mouth could press up against his. Sherlock felt his breath catch, and he dropped John's knife as his arm came up automatically around John's body. John's lips were cold, but quickly warmed up. Sherlock's heart hammered against his ribcage, and he desperately returned John's kiss. His hand was clenched in the fabric of John's jacket, and his other hand, the one holding the mistletoe, wrapped around John's shoulder, careful not to drop it.

John finally broke away and leaned his forehead against Sherlock's shoulder, breathing hard, breath misting out against Sherlock's jumper. Sherlock pressed a quick kiss against John's temple and held John tighter. John huffed out a small laugh that sounded a bit like disbelief.

"God," John said, then leaned up to kiss Sherlock again, as if he couldn't get enough of it. Sherlock thought he knew how John felt, as he felt quite similarly.

"I've been wanting to do that," John said. "I've been waiting for ages."

"Me too," Sherlock replied softly, his lips almost close enough to kiss John again. "John, I..."

"I do, too," John said. "Whatever it is. Me too."

They clung to one another for a while, Sherlock lost track of the time. He couldn't quite believe he was here with John in his arms. John had kissed him.

"You're a hopeless romantic, John," Sherlock murmured.

"I am, and you liked it," John said with another laugh. "Admit it."

Sherlock smiled and couldn't quite bring himself to stop. He had liked it. He hadn't thought that he would be the type to like it, but now that he was here, and it was happening, it was filling his veins up with tingling warmth.

"Come on," John said, and took his hand.

John picked up the rifle, and they walked back to the house hand-in-hand. John didn't let go, not even when they reached the house. Sherlock presented his mother with the mistletoe, preening a little when her eyes drifted down to their tightly clasped hands. John was his. He was allowed to show off about it now.

His mother hung the mistletoe right in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room. The rest of the next two days were torture. John insisted on kissing him every time they passed under the mistletoe. That part wasn't the painful part – it was the bit where they had to stop. 

Mycroft was unbearably smug about the whole thing, but Sherlock did his best to ignore it. Paying attention to Mycroft when he had John kissing him would be quite silly.

They were staying overnight, and John was supposed to sleep on the spare bed they'd brought into Sherlock's room just for the occasion. That didn't stop John from coming over and kissing Sherlock breathless right before bedtime. It all felt a bit intimate, with them both in their pyjamas, snogging on Sherlock's bed.

Sherlock felt a stir of interest from his groin and broke away, panting. John's face was flushed, and his hair was sticking up from where Sherlock had run his fingers through it.

"Too much?" John asked softly.

"Well," Sherlock cleared his throat. "It's just that. Um."

He glanced down pointedly, blushing.

"Oh," John said. "Ah. I suppose we shouldn't, not with your parents next door."

Sherlock groaned and closed his eyes in embarrassment. This was exactly like being a teenager, being afraid of being caught fooling around in his parents' house.

"Don't worry, it's fine," John said reassuringly, running a hand up Sherlock's side, making him shiver. "We'll be back home tomorrow anyway."

And just like that, Sherlock had the promise of future sex with John. Tomorrow night. Sherlock shivered again harder.

The ride back to London was much more pleasant now that Sherlock was allowed to snuggle up against John in the car. John had their hands tangled in his lap and was leaning against Sherlock's shoulder contentedly.

"I'm glad we went," John remarked.

"I wasn't expecting this," Sherlock said quietly.

"Neither was I," John said. "I just... saw you with the mistletoe and realized that this was my chance, and I took it."

Sherlock couldn't find a single thing to say that wasn't just telling John he loved him on repeat, so he settled for squeezing his hand. It wasn't time yet. Sherlock didn't know much about relationships, but apparently saying those three words too soon could ruin things.

They got home, and no one was home. Mrs. Hudson had gone to visit her sister, but she had left them a present in the open doorway of 221b. It wasn't real, but John broke out in a grin.

He lead Sherlock up the stairs by the hand and pulled him close underneath the mistletoe.

"Come here, you gorgeous thing," John said, and Sherlock flushed and preened at the compliment.

John pulled his head down, and Sherlock sank into it, hands trying to find purchase on John's body. John groaned into his mouth and untucked Sherlock's shirt so that he could slip his hands underneath. His hands were cold, and Sherlock gasped. John began unbuttoning his shirt, walking him into the living room and tumbled them both onto the sofa.

As soon as his chest was somewhat exposed, John kissed his way down Sherlock's neck. Sherlock arched his neck to the side, keeping carefully still as John's lips settled on the junction of neck and shoulder and applied suction. Sherlock made an embarrassingly high-pitched noise in his throat and clung onto John's jumper.

"Good thing we didn't do this at your parents' house," John murmured. "Are you loud in bed, Sherlock?"

"I – I don't know," Sherlock gasped.

John's mouth closed around one exposed nipple and explored it with his tongue. Sherlock groaned loudly and panted as John played with it using his mouth. A shiver ran hard down the length of his spine and settled in his abdomen.

"Evidence would suggest so," Sherlock managed to say.

John unbuttoned the rest of his shirt, kissing a line down Sherlock's quivering stomach. The skin around his hipbones was sensitive, and just the feel of John's stubble sent lances of sensation through him. John noticed, and sucked a mark into the curve of one hipbone. Sherlock whined and trembled, letting John unbutton his trousers and pull them down over his hips. 

John laughed a bit as he realized Sherlock was still wearing his shoes. He took the time to untie them and then get his trousers off his legs. Sherlock blinked and blushed on the couch as John looked down at his exposed body. His cock was hard and tenting his pants, and he was flushed, chest heaving.

"Gorgeous," John said.

Sherlock took in a gasping breath as John leaned down to bury his nose in Sherlock's groin, nosing him through his pants. He threw his head back, one hand grabbing onto the couch, the other finding its way to the back of John's head. John shimmied Sherlock's pants down to expose his cock. Sherlock whimpered as John closed a hand around him.

"John," Sherlock gasped, back arching.

"Look at you," John murmured. "Just dying for this."

Sherlock keened, and then yelled as John's mouth closed over the head of his cock. Hot, throbbing bolts of pleasure shot through him, stronger than he'd even thought possible. John's cheeks hollowed as he sucked, and Sherlock tried to keep breathing raggedly.

"Oh, God," Sherlock gasped.

John rolled his balls in his palm, and Sherlock spread his knees more to accommodate John's hand as he explored between his legs. Sherlock shivered hard and then yelped as John's fingers pressed behind his balls.

"Too sensitive?" John asked in worry.

"No," Sherlock gasped. "It's – it's..."

John did it again, rubbing hot circles into Sherlock's perineum with his fingers. Sherlock mewled and writhed. John slipped Sherlock's cock back in his mouth, and there was so much sensation that Sherlock felt a bit like he was drowning.

The rough pad of one of John's finger rubbed over his entrance, and it was over. Something deep in Sherlock's gut throbbed hard, and he was coming in spurts without warning. John sputtered in surprise, but then did his best to swallow around his release.

Sherlock panted and trembled in the aftermath, and John kissed his lax mouth.

"I want you inside me," Sherlock said, voice sleepy after release.

"We don't have to right away, you know," John said gently.

"I know, I want to," Sherlock said, smiling. "I have lube in my bedside table, go get it."

John looked like he wanted to argue, but Sherlock gestured at him to go. So John went into Sherlock's room and returned holding a small bottle, half-empty.

"Take your clothes off first," Sherlock instructed, and John complied. Sherlock's breath caught in his throat. John was perfect.

John's first finger was a bit cool from the lube, but Sherlock, relaxed from climax, admitted the intrusion easily. It felt slightly odd, but the more John moved his finger, the better it felt. Sherlock made a groaning sound and arched his back.

"Another one," he urged.

Two fingers was a bit more of a stretch, but it brought more of a full feeling that made a tingle start at the base of Sherlock's spine. Two fingers felt a little bit more like being properly fucked. Sherlock liked the feeling, and he could already feel himself getting hard again.

Three fingers brushed a sensitive spot inside him that had him back up to full hardness with just a few thrusts. It also made him feel like he wanted more – _needed_ more – right now.

"Oh, please," he gasped. "Tell me I'm ready."

"You're ready, if you want," John said.

"Here, let me," Sherlock said, getting up to straddle John's lap.

John's cock was far bigger than even three fingers, and John steadied the base while Sherlock sank down slowly, groaning at the fullness as he did. He closed his eyes as he concentrated on going slow, not rushing and causing himself any injury, as much as he wanted to have all of John's cock in him immediately.

When he opened his eyes, John was looking up at him, steadying Sherlock's hips with his hands. His cheeks were flushed, and he was biting his bottom lip.

Sherlock moved, and John gasped, dilated eyes fixed on him. It was the closest he'd ever been to another person, not just physically, but emotionally. He felt a sob working its way out of his throat at how much it felt like his chest was expanding with the feeling of loving John.

It took him a moment to realize he was saying it out loud.

"I love you," he gasped as John's fingers closed around his cock. "I love you, I love you."

He couldn't stop saying it. John buried his face against Sherlock's sweaty shoulder and said, "I know, sweetheart. I love you, too. I do."

Sherlock felt a tear drip down his face, John's lips against his face, finding each one as they fell. His whole body was trembling, and his emotions were so intense that his second climax was secondary compared to the ache in his chest. John throbbed inside him, and he could feel a flood of warmth as John emptied his release inside him.

He collapsed against John's chest, breathing heavily and quivering.

"That's it, love," John whispered. "Come on, up you get."

John got them moving, stumbling to Sherlock's room. They curled up on his bed and John got the covers up over them. Sherlock didn't even notice as sleep stole over him, John's arms around him.

The next morning came in bright, sunlight streaming through the window. It was snowing outside, fat, fluffy flakes drifting down peacefully.

"Merry Christmas, love," John murmured in his ear.

Yes, it was. It was Christmas, and Sherlock had just woken up in John's arms.

"I like what I got this year," Sherlock whispered, smiling.

"I do, too," John said and kissed him.

Sherlock settled in for a morning cuddle and thought to himself that perhaps mistletoe wasn't such a terrible tradition after all.

**Author's Note:**

> [My Tumblr](http://testosterone-tea.tumblr.com)


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